Wild dogs roam the streets in Djibouti, sort of like the crazy men in underwear except the dogs come in packs and don’t throw stones at runners. I, on the other hand, am occasionally forced to throw stones at them. (The dogs, not the men.) But one morning, on an early run, wild dogs and homeless crazy men gave me an unexpected lesson in compassion.

I know in America, especially among runners, dogs are dearly loved members of the family and essential training partners. But dogs in Djibouti are aggressive, disease-ridden and filthy, with yellowed eyes and patches of hair missing. I would rather cross a naked crazy man than a half-starved Djiboutian wild dog. I wouldn’t dream of throwing stones at dogs in the U.S., but when I see a pack in front of me here, I make sure I have a handful of pebbles at the ready.

Now that the weather is starting to heat up again (chilly 85-degree days are gone until next December), the dogs seem to be getting more aggressive and the crazy men are again removing clothing.

I was running along Rue de Nelson Mandela when I saw a large, mustard-colored dog sitting in front of a bread cart. I prepared for battle. Who knew running could double as target practice? Sure enough, the dog caught sight of me and barreled across the street.

He growled and barked, gnashed long teeth at my heels and wasn’t deterred by my pebbles. I picked up the pace, and the dog kept with me. He dodged back and forth, darting at my legs and snarling, coming closer each time. I wondered how much longer I had before I felt teeth sink into the back of my calf, pictured rabies and shuddered.

Suddenly the dog backed off. He simply stopped barking, stopped chasing me and pranced back across the road. I figured we had reached the border of his territory.

I ran past the American military base; Camp Lemonier, said "bonjour" to a dozen jogging French soldiers and turned for home. Would the dog be there again? I didn’t have much kick left to get away; the humidity had sucked me dry.
I rounded a corner and saw a crowd gathering. School children stopped and poked at something lying on the ground. A car parked, and the driver leaned on the horn. Women grabbed their head scarves tight and hurried to the spot. I ran on but turned to look behind and saw one of the homeless, crazy men on the sidewalk. From the reactions of the people, I guessed he had died during the night.

My heart went out to the poor man, left all alone to die on the side of the road. I had seen him walking, like all the homeless men, but he had never bothered me. I wanted to turn back, to do something to help, but the police were coming and I knew I would just be in the way so I continued.

And then…another dead body. The dog that had chased me earlier was sprawled in the middle of the road, already breakfast for scavenging crows.

My first thought was “Justice!” but then I remembered the man lying a few blocks behind. Life was fragile and could be snatched in a moment. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who gloated over the death of any living thing, even a vicious attack dog.

I might not start smiling at the crazy men – wouldn’t want them to whack me over the head with their sticks or flash me. And I will probably still scoop up rocks when I see dogs ahead.

But the rocks will be smaller and more poorly aimed. Rachel Jones lives in the capital city of Djibouti, Djibouti City and works for an NGO. You can read all of her articles about running in Djibouti at runningtimes.com/djibouti.